The Learning Curve
by March Hare
Summary: Pre-Canon. A tale of Sherlock Holmes' childhood, from a very different point of view...


Greetings! Hare here, with another vignette! I got the idea for this story during Algebra II, which shows that good really can come out of anything! If college algebra isn't the Ultimate Evil, it has to be close!  
  
Anyhow, I was pondering the mysteries of Holmes' childhood when this plot bunny snuck into class and sank its teeth into my ankle! My writing arm cramped up as the venom infected me, and when the spasm passed, my notebook was covered with notes for this story! Of course, I had to hastily turn the page before my own evil professor realized that Sherlock Holmes had very little to do with square roots and imaginary numbers. So I dashed home and typed up this little story. I don't think that anyone in fanficdom has ever tried this POV, but I could be wrong. And as a note to Rainne, after writing "Letter to the Editor," I feel much more comfortable with first-person POV rather than third. Perhaps sometime in the future, perhaps, but for now, I'm sticking to first.  
  
Enjoy!  
  
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The Learning Curve  
  
By March Hare, the Mad  
  
~~  
  
"Nothing is so important as the trivial." -Sherlock Holmes  
  
"You have less frontal development as a man than I should have expected from knowing you as a boy." -Professor Moriarty  
  
~~  
  
The boy would send me to an early grave, I was sure of it.  
  
I bent over him, observing his progress as he laboriously completed the problem I had written out. His handwriting was atrocious, only compounding my discomfort. Straightening wearily, I cast a glance out the window at the darkening North Riding countryside, drenched in torrential rain. There had been no pony rides for the young esquire this day, and he was driving me to distraction with his whining. It was truly a mystery; the lad was unfailingly polite and courteous to others, especially his much-admired elder brother, but for me he afforded naught but taunts and impertinence.  
  
"Finished, Professor," he muttered, pushing the sheet of scribbles in my general direction. Biting back a remark, I snatched up the paper and attempted to decipher his gibberish. Finally, I saw where he had gone wrong. "You failed to compute the remainder of the quotient into a decimal, as I had instructed." Fool. Could he not follow the simplest of instructions? "It is imperative that you grasp the properties of decimals, for such knowledge will be invaluable in life. I declare, young master, if you continue in this vein. . ."  
  
He cut me off with a razorblade smirk, his voice containing a cynicism rarely found in ten-year-olds. "What? I'll give you gray hairs?" My hand unconsciously flew to my head and the boy's grin deepened into mocking proportions. Further proof of life's cruelty; not but thirty-three years old and my shoulder-length hair was already completely white. I could feel my face twisting into an acerbic grimace as I once more held my tongue. Wicked child, he always brought out the worst in me. "Who cares about stupid decimals?" he continued with a sneer. "They aren't really numbers, just little parts. It's not like they matter."  
  
What? How dare he contradict me?! This was the final straw! Seizing the wooden ruler from the boy's desk, I rapped him on the head, not softly, causing him to cry out and tangle his fingers in his wayward black hair. "Idiot!" I cried, shaking the ruler. "Moron! Your flippancy only intensifies your ignorance!" The ruler flashed down again, this time on his knuckles with a satisfying crack. "Minutiae!" I cried, repeating my personal mantra. "Nothing is more important than the trivial! There exist an infinite amount of numbers between one and two alone! Everything on this planet, your desk, your bed, the air you breath, even your miserable self is constructed of microscopic molecules, without which you would cease to be!" How dare this child take my instruction so lightly? I would soon correct this wayward attitude! Casting about for a proper punishment, I was seized by a burst of creativity. Taking a magnifying glass from a nearby shelf, I slammed it onto the desk before him as he rubbed his injured hand. "For your impertinence, you will take this and count every last one of the fibers in the carpet."  
  
The boy turned in his chair to regard his carpet, an enormous Turkish. "But-but that will take all night!" he cried.  
  
"Then so be it!" I said in triumph. "Perhaps no supper and a sleepless night of counting fibers by lamplight will increase your appreciation of minutiae." *And teach you some respect, you hellion. If you will not stand aside in deference, you shall be trodden underfoot.* "This lesson is concluded, and you are confined to your room until you finish your 'homework'". With that Parthian shot, I turned and left the room with a smile, but not before I saw the look of loathing in his gray, too-old eyes.  
  
After shutting the boy's door tightly, I went to return to my room, only to be confronted by the boy's elder brother, a book wedged beneath his large arm. "Any problem, Professor?" he asked with seeming unconcern.  
  
I was surprised to see the obese young man; he never seemed to go anywhere other than his room, the library or the dining room. A creature of habit, to be sure, as immovable as a railway car on set tracks. "No problem, young master, just a bit of disciplinary action." The young man's mouth twisted sourly. Unwilling to explain myself to the taciturn youth, I brushed past him and went directly to my room, the rain drumming against the windowpanes harder than ever. Seating myself at my sparse desk, I calmed myself by doing further experiments with the binominal theorem. I had a theory, a revolutionary one, and if it proved correct, it could completely alter predictions on the movement of celestial bodies! Comets, asteroids, all manner of heavenly debris could be calculated with stunning precision! Despite the ground-breaking portents, I forced myself to concentrate on the matter at hand. Patience was key; I had to be as patient as the spider in its web. One day I would move on to greater things, fortune and power, free from a mediocre existence of teaching monstrous children.  
  
I worked through supper and late into the night, falling asleep over my calculations. When I awoke, the room was in complete blackness and the rain had ceased. I fumbled for a vesta, lit a candle and scrubbed at the ink stains on my face. A glance at my pocket watch declared the time to be half-past midnight. I decided to check up on my troublesome pupil; if he was asleep at the job, then he could go without breakfast as well as supper. I crept into his room with the candle, peering around. The boy was asleep in his bed, in his nightclothes, no less! How dare he disregard my orders??  
  
I marched into the room, intent on waking him for a thrashing, when I caught sight of a page of calculations on his desk. My eyes widened as I comprehended his messy scrawls. The boy had counted the fibers in one square inch of the carpet, then solved for the area and multiplied! The entire affair must have taken five minutes. To add insult to injury, an empty plate rested on the desktop, an offering from his fat brother, no doubt. I crumpled the paper in impotent fury.  
  
He had outwitted me.  
  
With any other pupil, I might have been pleased and proud of the child's cunning, but this act only intensified my now-impotent wrath. Casting the paper onto the desk, my mind roiling, I impulsively stooped and snatched up a pillow from the floor. The room was a sty, a rat's nest, forever cluttered. Reflexively, my gaze turned to the lad, who was sleeping peacefully. The magnifying glass winked out in the candlelight as it sat on his bed stand. My grip on the pillow tightened and I was seized with an inexplicable dread. He would wake and fix me with that steely gray glare, he would reach out and grasp the magnifying glass and bring down everything I had built! My vision wavered in the candlelight and the rushing sound of a cascade filled my ears. A treacherous voice sounded in my ear. *Do it, do it now, he ruined you, he brought down everything you had, him and that stupid doctor,*  
  
Like a man in a trance, I took a step closer.  
  
*he ruined you, he'll ruin you, end it before it begins, only a few minutes, you're stronger than him still, he can't fight you,*  
  
I raised the pillow, his dreaded breathing combating the roar of the torrential water.  
  
*he'll hunt you down, he'll kill you, he'll drown you, drown him first, drown him, smother him, end it before it begins, kill him before he kills you, kill him first, kill him, KILL HIM NOW!!!*  
  
NO!! With a strangled gasp, I dropped the pillow, grabbed at the candle and fled the room, not ceasing my run until I slid into my own quarters, locking the door. The candle trembled in my grip as I sank to my knees, gasping. What was happening to me?? My God, I was just about to smother an innocent child! I had never hurt a soul in my life, but now I was driven to thoughts of murder!! What darkness lurked in my soul to inspire such thoughts? I could not remain in this charnel house one day longer; I would leave at sunrise. I would go to my brother in Shropshire; surely he and his wife had a spare room at the stationhouse. I would finish my experiments and write my treatise on the dynamics of asteroids, and never again stoop to tutor these misbegotten brats! I spent the sleepless night packing my few belongings, the window wide open to let in the chill night air and disperse the cloud around my soul, but not even the rising of the sun could quiet my spirit.  
  
I announced my immediate resignation to the boy's father before breakfast, declining his offers of increased pay. After some argument, the man shook his head, but did not question my motives, as if he knew this would happen. Taking me to his study, he wrote a short but complimentary letter of recommendation, paid me my dues for the week and wished me luck. I summoned a valet to help me load my trunk onto my dogcart. Once my few possessions were secure, I climbed into the driver's seat, taking the reins in hand. Glancing back at the manor, I could see the boy watching me from a window, boring me with his inscrutable gaze, the infernal glass clutched in his white hand. Rushing water filled my ears. Suppressing a shudder, I flicked the reins and set the horse moving, never turning my stare from the road ahead.  
  
Farewell, Master Sherlock Holmes. I wish you luck in your life, but I pray that we never meet again.  
  
I greatly fear the consequences if we do.  
  
~~  
  
Whoo, that gave me chills. I think there was more dramatic foreshadowing than a Greek tragedy! Writing as a villain was really tricky; you have to crawl inside their head, and Moriarty's was slimy and dark and smelly. . . not a pleasant experience. Well, tell me what you thought! I'm gonna go take a shower.  
  
REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


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